Raw Footage
by Scullysfan
Summary: Finally someone has proof Mulder and Scully are doing it during commercials. ; )


Title: Raw Footage  
Author: Scullysfan  
  
Rating: Strong R  
Classification: SRH  
Spoilers: X-Cops  
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder and Scully are the property   
of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are not mine and no   
copyright infringement is intended. All other characters belong to   
me.  
Distribution: Do not archive at Gossamer or Xemplary. Anyone   
else, please ask first. Thanks.   
Summary: Finally someone has proof Mulder and Scully are doing   
it during commercials. ; )  
  
  
  
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at   
Scullysfan@aol.com.   
  
Author's notes and thanks following story.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
I see a lot of shit in this job.   
  
Working in television is exciting and glamorous. At least that's   
what I used to think, until I graduated from the University of   
Arkansas (Wooooooo. Pig. Soooie!) with a double degree in Film   
Production and Drama and headed off to Hollywood for the fame   
and fortune due me.   
  
Four years later and I still have the only job I could find then --   
cutting and splicing miles of videotape to make drunks and junkies   
look like the baddest of boys, and overweight, out-of-shape cops   
run much faster than they really do. The work is tedious and   
repetitive. So's what I see. An endless parade of stupid kids   
doing stupid things, women abandoning their babies, and men   
beating their women. Viewers don't see the worst of it -- just the   
clips that'll make them feel better about themselves and those   
who promise to protect and serve.   
  
They don't see the fucked up cops -- the crazy ones who would   
probably be shoved behind bars themselves, if it weren't for that   
shiny piece of metal on their chests.   
  
But they will soon. Next up in a long line of quality FOX specials --   
"World's Craziest Law Enforcement Officers Caught on Tape." I've   
been collecting outtakes from "Cops" for weeks, besides staying   
late and going through archived news tapes. Hey, it beats going   
home these days.   
  
I wish I'd remembered that last night, but it was Valentine's Day,   
and I thought things would be different. And I guess they were.   
Instead of me and Pete screaming like banshees at each other, I   
laid on the couch and ate the box of Russell Stover chocolates I   
bought myself -- because I knew he'd forget -- all while watching   
the digital clock on top of the television blink the passing of each   
minute I spent alone. Except some of the little red lights forming   
the numbers were out, so the display read 1:75 a.m. when I said   
"fuck it" and went to bed.   
  
When I woke up next it was to the feel of Pete lunging over the   
side of the bed and the sound of puke splattering on cheap   
linoleum. He flopped back down, and I briefly considered cleaning   
up his mess, but the thought of him sitting up and planting his feet   
in the middle of it gave me a perverse pleasure, so I rolled over and   
went back to sleep.   
  
Daylight and the smells of sweat and cheap perfume mixed with   
Aqua Velva got together and woke me for good this morning. Well,   
Pete's hand in my crotch might have had something to do with it,   
too. I forgot the vomit in my floor when he made my toes curl,   
which I suppose was the whole idea.   
  
I was in love again when I left for work. At least I thought so. If   
someone had asked me if I loved Pete, I would have said yes,   
though I'm not sure I've ever known why. Maybe that means I   
don't love him after all.   
  
I've always seen love as abstract, this intangible thing, never   
expecting it to be something one could pin down and say, "Hey!   
That's love -- right there, just like that!"   
  
  
Shoving another tape into the player and cueing up the footage, I   
table those thoughts for another solitary night spent waiting for   
Pete and wondering why he's out grabbing someone else's ass   
instead of mine.   
  
As the machine grinds and grates its way to "Play", I grab the   
full-size bag of low-fat, low-calorie Doritos I brought to serve as   
lunch, dinner, and the smoke breaks I used to take every two   
point three hours. Reading the bag I see I exchanged one warning   
label for another -- "warning: product contains Olestra which may   
cause cramping, diarrhea..." I pop a chip in my mouth and suck   
the cheesy orange from my fingers. Yeah, a night of the runs is a   
fair exchange for permission to eat an entire bag of chips guilt-free.   
  
Kicking back, I watch as the screen flickers to life and a leafy   
branch slaps the camera, and therefore me, square in the face.   
Such is to be expected with Bob at the helm. Other cameramen   
for the show do their job, and only their job.   
  
Not Bob. There's always time for a little extra impropriety in the   
middle of the "Cops" run and gun style of shooting. I haven't   
figured out why he does it -- he's not getting paid extra for shooting   
additional material. Maybe it's the thrill of the hunt, or maybe...   
maybe Bob's just an asshole.   
  
Whatever the reason, he's frighteningly good at filming cops at   
their worst, or their horniest, and he has been keeping me in good   
supply of footage for that upcoming "Caught on Tape" special.   
Which is what this tape is for, and since it features two of "Cops"   
most recent guest stars, it'll at least be entertaining in the weirdest   
sense of the word.  
  
From the very start, Bob's ride-along with a rookie so new he still   
had his baby fat was bizarre. When filming L.A. cops, we've   
come to expect the unexpected, but running into the aftereffects   
of a monster that leaves claw marks longer than RuPaul's press-on   
nails was a new one. So were Agents Mulder and Scully from the   
F.B.I. in D.C.   
  
Things must be slow in the terrorism and kidnapping business if   
they let these two skulk through the dark, poke into bushes and   
argue over whether they were in search of a werewolf, alien, or   
Freddy Krueger.   
  
Which is what they were doing when Deputy Wetzel and a bunch   
of other cops responded to the call with Bob in tow. It was down   
Shit Hill from there. But despite Agent Mulder milking his fifteen   
minutes of fame for all it was worth and his partner's annoying   
habit of ducking behind doors and leaving Bob in a closet, I   
managed to put together a full episode.   
  
And this is my reward.  
  
The camera is finally still so the picture is no longer my window   
into a pell-mell dash through the brush. Bob's huffing and puffing   
makes me think I should save the rest of these Olestra-laden chips   
for him, but I crunch another one into smithereens while straining   
to see what the camera is showing me.   
  
Bob's hiding place is too far away for me to hear what they're   
saying, but to be honest, some actions are more fun without   
words.   
  
It's dark where they're standing, save for one pee-yellow porch   
light casting a puny glow across the backyard of the crime scene.   
I recognize the house -- cops were crawling over it earlier looking   
for whatever the hell was terrorizing the junkies living there. Now   
it's just Big Beak and Red who obviously think they're alone.   
  
At first it's business at usual, I can tell. Red's waving her arms   
and planting her hands on her hips -- really giving him down the   
road. And Big Beak... well, he's standing there with the blankest   
expression on his face, just listening, or maybe he's not. Maybe   
he's waiting for her to take a breath, for a lull in the yammering.   
I saw all of this at least three times while editing. So I dig in the   
bag for another chip as I glance up expecting to see more of the   
same.   
  
Damn.   
  
I swing my legs off the desk, and there's a shattering crunch when   
my feet crush fallen, forgotten chips as I shove my face closer to   
the screen.   
  
Two federal agents just earned themselves a starring role in a   
FOX special.   
  
Squinting to make sure my eyes aren't playing me for a fool, I see   
Big Beak's expression has shifted, and I'd say it has something to   
do with the grip Red has on the front of his jeans. Oh, she's not   
taken up snake-handling... yet, but her fingers are curled around   
his waistband and from the tilt of her head and the threatening   
grin on her face, I'll bet she's gotten his attention this way a time   
or two.   
  
She doesn't have it for long before it's not enough, and Big Beak   
stumbles as she jerks him forward. Twisting her fist in the denim   
for leverage, she stands on her toes as her other hand yanks his   
head down to hers. Her damn mushroom-shaped hair is in the   
way, so I don't have a clear view of the kiss, but based on how   
he's humping her belly, I'd say it's nothing like the one I gave   
Cousin Jimmy Lee the last time I visited Arkansas.   
  
It seems Big Beak and Red don't hate each other after all.   
  
Big Beak's hands are fumbling underneath her leather jacket (How   
much are my tax dollars paying these feds anyway?!), and one   
heads north as the other dives south. Never having been a fan of   
the Spice Channel and its 50 Ways to Fuck Your Lover movie   
line-up, the twitch between my legs surprises me, but before I can   
consider locking the door and seeing it through, a startled grunt   
comes from behind the camera and we're off and running again.   
  
This time Bob remembers to turn off the camera during his flight   
to safety. I run the tape forward through the dead air between   
clips, shuffling my feet back and forth to sweep clear a spot of   
floor. When the tape is still going with no sign of a picture, I jab   
the play button, pissed that the big things Bob promised added   
up to just one clip.   
  
Unexpected voices cut into the silence and make me jump.  
  
"... go home. There's nothing more for us to do here. Not that   
there ever was."  
  
"Scully, there's an unidentified creature mauling people."  
  
"That's why the LAPD is here. I heard them mention calling   
Animal Control... even the Department of Wildlife. We're in the   
way."   
  
Big Beak forces out a clipped huff, and I hear creaking leather   
and what sounds like drumming fingers. Still no video, but I'm   
beginning to get the picture.   
  
"It could be aliens, Scully... we're not all that far from Phoenix."   
  
"In Los Angeles?"  
  
She'd better listen to him. If aliens are going to show up   
anywhere, it would be in Venice Beach. There's more leather   
noise, and suddenly her voice is much easier to hear.   
  
"What's taking that camera guy so long? And I still don't see why   
we've ended up with him in our backseat."  
  
"Did you see what he ate earlier, Scully? I'd say it's in everyone's   
best interest if he stays in the restroom as long as possible."  
  
Sounds like Bob found time for his favorite snack. Having been on   
the receiving end of those fumes, I understand why Big Beak's   
looking out for his nose.  
  
Red's answering sigh is an exasperated one. Whether it's   
because she's bored or horny, I'm not sure. I hope I'm about to   
find out.  
  
"Relax, Scu--"  
  
"Relax? Mulder, I..." She's looking right at me. "Why'd he leave   
that camera in the back seat?"  
  
"I don't wanna know what you think he'd do with a camera in the   
restroom." The seat shifts and Big Beak's voice flies in my   
direction. "Don't worry... the lens cap is on."  
  
"Better be."   
  
"It is. Do you really think I'd do this if I thought we were being   
filmed?"  
  
Bingo!  
  
"Mulder, be careful. You still have grease on your hands from the   
fries... you get fingerprints on my new jacket and you'll pay."  
  
"Gladly."   
  
"What are you doing?" Red's voice carries a distinct quiver.  
  
"Trying to find somewhere else to put my hands."  
  
"Mulder..."  
  
The warning in her voice dies and for a few seconds all I hear is   
breathing. Loud breathing.  
  
"How's this?"  
  
"Umm... those are pretty good places... Mmm... maybe one   
could move lower."  
  
The twitch is back. I cross my legs.   
  
"Here?"   
  
"Mulder, don't tease.. you know wha -- yessss."  
  
The creaking of my chair keeps time with that of Red's seat until   
I hear a car door open and a whispered "fuck!" at the same time.   
Voices fill the air before Bob silences them all.  
  
  
This is better than I ever expected. Until "Young Agents in Lust"   
came along, the most provocative clip I'd found was a highway   
patrolman taking a piss out his squad car door while doing eighty   
on I-75. Viewers will eat it up -- horny federal agents stealing   
minutes for groping and talking dirty. Milking it for every last drop   
of sleaze may just be my ticket out of here and up the studio dung   
heap.   
  
I'm imagining how the audio tracks would sound if I laid them over   
the first video clip when the screen flickers to life again. Audio   
and video both this time.   
  
Jackpot.   
  
At first I'm not sure where Bob and his camera are hiding. I can   
tell the space is dark, but there's light from a streetlight, I guess,   
mixing with the rising sun to shine on a patch of dirt and grass   
just a few feet away. Footsteps are thudding on asphalt and   
gravel, and an ambulance's siren starts up only to grow fainter.   
  
A wince and a thump, and suddenly someone is sitting on the   
ground about three feet from the camera. I can't see above the   
person's waist, but those short legs would have given Red away   
even without the "Scully?!" that came running from yards away.   
  
As Big Beak slides down in a spray of dirt and rocks beside her,   
I notice what is making his voice shake. Red's leather jacket isn't   
so perfect anymore -- a rip in the sleeve between her wrist and   
elbow means that cow died for nothing. She pushes the sleeve   
already shiny with blood out of the way, and I swear I hear her   
cluck her tongue in disgust, but maybe it was a subconscious   
cluck of empathy on my part.   
  
Damn. That sucker has to hurt. With her jacket and shirt sleeves   
out of the way, we all suck in our breath at the jagged gash slicing   
from the inside of her arm down and around to the outside. It's   
hard to tell how deep it is, with the camera under what I've   
decided must be a vehicle, and Big Beak's hands fluttering like a   
bird trying to find a place to land on nothing.  
  
"Don't move, Scully -- I'm going to get them to call another   
ambulance."   
  
He scrambles to his feet, but she's quick. Her other hand reaches   
up and tugs on his jeans until he kneels in front of her again. She   
laughs for the first time tonight. I guess it's a laugh; maybe it's a   
chuckle. Whatever, I get the feeling she doesn't do it often, which   
might explain why it trembles.   
  
"No, Mulder, stop... it's not that bad. Pressure and a few   
steri-strips will take care of it."   
  
"No stitches? Are you sure..."  
  
His voice drops to a whisper and disappears as his two hands   
cover hers over the cut. I still can't see them above chest level,   
but I can tell his head is bowed. Is he afraid to look away   
because the blood might all run out from between his fingers?   
  
Both his voice and his grip find strength, and when he speaks   
again, his hands tighten on hers until she pulls her hand out.   
  
"How did you do this, Scully?"  
  
"It was stupid." She wiggles her fingers, testing to see if he broke   
them, I suppose. "I started around the corner of the -- "  
  
"Put your hand back here a second."   
  
Her hand slips back into place as he reaches into his back   
pocket, leaving a dark, wet stain on his jeans, and pulls out   
several white hankies. Dropping them in her lap, he nudges her   
hand away and presses one to the wound. "Yeah, around the   
corner...?"  
  
"...started around the corner, and I stepped on a rock or   
something. I raised my arm to grab my balance, then stumbled   
into the rain gutter. A piece of metal or nail was sticking out --"  
  
"And it attacked you?"   
  
"Yeah."  
  
He snatches a second hankie and adds it to the soaked first.   
Three hankies for one guy? How much snot does he have   
anyway? Red must be thinking the same thing when she picks up   
the third piece of cloth and waves it in his face.   
  
"Mulder, what's with the handkerchiefs?"  
  
The cat's got his tongue for a while.   
  
"Mulder?"  
  
"It's... it's a habit. Can't break it... I guess." Some kind of a laugh   
jerks out of him, but it sounds like a cough coming from a   
pneumonia-pained chest. "Over two years... I'm still..."  
  
His words sputter out in bunches as he takes the last hankie and   
ties into the worst damn bandage I've seen since I wrapped Martha   
Faye Lane from head to toe in our Campfire Girls troop one   
summer.  
  
Red must appreciate it though because she pets it. And maybe   
it's the words that make her voice shake.   
  
"Over two years of remission... and you're still afraid..."  
  
She sighs and stops talking, but not touching him. My eyes can't   
see where her good hand is headed, but I imagine it just the same.   
Reaching up she strokes his cheek and holds her hand there as   
she stretches, twisting a little to kiss the other side of his face.   
The sound of lips twice meeting skin confirms it.   
  
His arms go around her then, not grabby and hot like before. This   
is gentle and... reverent, I guess.   
  
I'm wondering what that would feel like when they disappear and I'm   
staring at nothing. My face is hot at the idea of intruding on those   
last moments, the shame far greater than when I assumed they   
were just polishing the sheets like everyone else in this fake city   
is.   
  
But I know better now.   
  
That's why I eject the video and spend a few minutes of frenzied   
tape pulling until the garbage can looks like it's full of slithering   
brown snakes. I destroy Big Beak and Red fast before the   
prospects of pleasing the bastards upstairs gets the better of me   
and I sell my soul to get out of the valley.  
  
I stare at the mess I've made, the chips littering the floor and the   
ribbon spilling over the side of the can to join them, and I   
remember thinking earlier that love has no shape -- that it can't   
be touched or seen.   
  
Except today... today I saw love's picture.   
  
  
I like to think I will go home tonight and kick Pete the hell out of   
my house, now that I know what love looks like. Pete and me...   
we're not it.   
  
But I won't.  
  
I'll lie in bed and wait for Pete to come home, wait for him to fall   
on top of me and fuck me until my toes curl.   
  
I won't imagine for a second that Big Beak is doing the same to   
Red, and that the difference is in a stack of white hankies sitting   
in a suitcase by the side of the bed.   
  
  
The End.   
  
  
  
Author's notes -- First of all, yes, I took some creative liberties.   
g I realize that Scully's jacket was in fact *not* leather, but   
that was the wardrobe personnel's mix-up -- it should have been   
leather, dadgummit! ; ) And I also know that there was a sound   
man following the camera man, but SoundManGuy just wouldn't   
fit under the car in the last M&S clip, so...   
  
Nobody told me writing non-M&S POV fic was going to be   
addictive.   
  
Thanks first of all goes to Kris who supplied me with yet another   
set of story ideas which just happened to fit together to form a   
plot. I think this may be the beginning of another beautiful   
partnership for us. g  
  
Thanks to Jill, Laney, and Lisa for thorough editing... Lisa   
especially for making me giggle myself silly while reading her   
beta notes. ; )  
  
  
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at   
Scullysfan@aol.com.   
  
My other fanfic can be found on my newly revamped site at:   
http://members.aol.com/scullysfan/myfic.html  
  



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